Boleyn Traitor, page 41
I am horrified that she is bribing him. He weighs it in his hand as if he might ask for more. He bows to us both; he looks as if he is biting his cheek to keep from laughing in our faces. ‘Why, Your Majesty, Lady Rochford, I thank you for this charming gift. You’ll have no more trouble from me, I promise you.’ He goes to the door, opens it himself, and steps out. ‘Unless I need more money!’ he laughs, popping his head back in, and then he is gone.
‘Why give him money?’ I demand. ‘We were going to dismiss him, and the moment he said—’
‘I’m queen, aren’t I?’ she returns. ‘I’m the richest woman in England, aren’t I?’
‘Well, not really …’
‘I’m rich enough to buy a fool like Francis Dereham a hundred times over,’ she says irritably. ‘And neither you nor anyone else can tell me what to do with my money.’
St Mary’s, York, Autumn
1541
WE ENTER YORK as a punitive force in September. The journey north from Pontefract is erratic – constantly stopping for gentry and local people to come and prostrate themselves before the king to atone for their part in the Pilgrimage of Grace. In some villages, the bodies of fathers and brothers are still rotting in metal cages hanging from roadside gallows. Their sons and brothers kneel at the crossroads for forgiveness as we go by.
When we enter the city of York, the archbishop himself, with three hundred priests, kneels to the king and offers a treasure chest of money, asking pardon. Lady Mary watches the king harangue them, knowing they were trusting her to come to their aid, knowing they hoped to put her and Reginald Pole on the throne in place of her father. She sits completely still on her horse, her face as blank as a painted saint on a plastered wall; her guilt and grief only shows in convulsive swallowing as she fights the desire to vomit.
We stay at the empty abbey of St Mary, half of the buildings tumbled down by the storm of destruction which is called the king’s reformation. But the abbot’s house has been repaired in a hurry for this visit, and there is a great stone-floored hall where most of the court can be seated to dine; the queen has the rooms for honoured guests, and the king has the abbot’s rooms. There is a charming little parlour room on the ground floor where the abbess used to speak to visitors through a grille. Thomas can enter, unnoticed, from a courtyard and Kitty can slip down a private stair from the abbess’ bedroom when the court has closed for the night.
I go with her, in case there is any trouble, and sit at the back of the room while the two of them play Pyramus and Thisbe speaking through the grille for the first hour, until their lips come closer and closer to the metal lattice, and then Kitty opens the little door, and she is in his arms.
‘You’re hot,’ she leans back to look into his face.
‘I have a slight fever,’ he smiles. ‘My heart beats faster when you are against it.’
She puts her hand on his forehead. ‘Thomas, you must take a draught and go to bed. I am sure you’re feverish, and how shall I see you, if you’re ill?’
‘I’m not ill.’ He takes her hand from his forehead and kisses it. ‘Dying of love, of course.’
‘Jane!’ She summons me. ‘Feel his forehead – isn’t he hot?’
He certainly has a fever. His eyes are bright, and his cheeks flushed; his forehead is burning hot and dry.
‘You’d better put yourself to bed and let the queen go,’ I tell him.
It would be disastrous for her to be ill now, when her coronation might be announced any day. All the king’s pleasure in his pretty bride will not keep him in the same palace if she has sweating sickness. He is more afraid of illness than anything in the world.
Reluctantly, Culpeper releases her.
‘But who will look after you?’ she asks him, as I draw her away.
‘I’ve got good servants,’ he assures her. ‘And the king will send Dr Butts if he thinks I’m ill.’
‘Don’t say a word about us,’ she reminds him. ‘Not to the doctor. Don’t say about late nights and no sleep.’
‘Never,’ he says simply. ‘Never. You know I would die rather than betray you.’
She looks aghast. ‘Don’t say die! Don’t speak of it. If you … if you …’
Gently, I push her towards the door. ‘He has a slight fever,’ I say, very matter-of-fact. ‘He’ll be well by next week.’
‘Send me word how you are,’ she says as I get her to the foot of the stair. ‘I won’t be able to sleep unless I know you’re getting better.’
‘Let him go to bed now,’ I interrupt. ‘Master Culpeper, send your page in the morning and tell me how you are. But don’t write anything.’
‘No, write to me!’ Kitty begs. ‘Write to me every day.’
One passionate kiss on Kitty’s hand and he slips out of the door.
Kitty’s green eyes are tragic. ‘What if he were to be very ill?’ she asks. ‘What if he were to …’
‘He’s a strong, healthy young man,’ I say to her. ‘He’s not old, he’s not fat, and he’s not poisoned by an ulcer and broken by old injuries. He can have a fever and jump out of bed in two days, none the worse for wear. There’s nothing for you to fear.’
IN THE MORNING, we enter the chapel and there is no curly brown head bowed behind the king.
‘Can I write to him?’ she whispers. ‘I have to, Jane. I will.’
‘You can tell me what to write, so it’s not in your hand,’ I say. ‘And nothing but what anyone could read.’
She nods and dictates it to me in a whisper, while the long service goes on. I write a passionless précis – not at all what she wanted to say – and I palm it and pass it to Webb as we leave the chapel and tell him to give it to Culpeper’s servant. If he reads the brief words, he will think that it is from me – fool enough to pursue a younger man. But I have outlived far worse scandals than this.
The page sends word that Thomas Culpeper is very ill, with a burning fever, and is to be cupped later today. Kitty can barely endure the long ceremonies of the day and the many changes of dress: the procession to the cathedral, the presentation of loyal wishes, the submission of former rebels. She does it by rote, with an empty smile. The king beside her sees only her obedience to the order of the service; he has no idea that she is sick with longing for another man.
After dinner, the king sits beside Kitty to watch the dancing and tells her, with a pleased smile, that she is to prepare for a great event. It is a sign of how her marriage has schooled her that she does not leap to her feet with excitement about her coronation. She bows her head and says that she will do whatever he wishes.
Equally, she shows no disappointment when the king adds that it is to be a royal visit: his sister’s son, his rival, his neighbouring monarch, King James of Scotland, is coming to York to meet the greater King of England. If he brings his queen, the famously beautiful Mary of Guise, who preferred the lesser king to the greater one, Kitty will have to show herself as the younger, more beautiful, and certainly more fertile woman. Queen Mary must regret her choice of husband, and King James must see that our English king has the better wife. We are to send to London for extra jewels and gowns, and the queen’s household must have the best tapestries and glassware – all this must come north at once, and it is Kitty’s task to see that the English court and the English queen outshine the Scots.
Kitty’s eyes widen at the enormity of the task. ‘But I don’t know how …’ she starts, and the king laughs at her and gestures to me: ‘Jane will know what to do,’ he says. ‘How many kings have we bested, Jane? How many royal shows have we dazzled with?’
‘And we have the most beautiful queen ever.’ I smile and curtsey. ‘When do they arrive, Your Majesty?’ I ask. ‘How long do we have to make York into a little Hampton Court?’
It is the wrong thing to say – the king’s face darkens with sudden anger. ‘He’ll come when he’s bidden,’ he says furiously. ‘He’ll come when he’s ordered!’ He rounds on Kitty. ‘Do you question me?’
‘No! No!’ Kitty gasps. ‘And nor did Jane!’
She is brave to try to defend me, but we are in for one of his sudden, inexplicable storms, and nothing will restore his good temper.
I drop into a curtsey and keep my head down as he roars over both of us to Thomas Howard the Duke of Norfolk: ‘When d’you think the King of Scots will arrive? Eh? You’re so pressing for this meeting, and here’s a lady of your house questioning me! Me!’
Our uncle, taking in my bowed head and Kitty’s white face in one swift glance, says smoothly: ‘For certain, he’ll be scrambling to meet you as soon as he can get here, I should think. But he’s at Falkland Palace now – did he not write to Your Majesty? A pretty humble letter: he knows his place. I’ll give him safe conduct through the borders. I think he fears your stout English borderers!’
‘What sort of king is frightened by border reivers?’ the king asks contemptuously.
The duke laughs. ‘He is!’ he says. ‘He doesn’t have the grip on his people that you do, Your Majesty. But how can he? So young a man, in thrall to the Church and to his advisors, commanded by your sister his mother! Give him time, and he’ll learn from you how to govern.’
I rise up from my curtsey, and the duke shows Kitty and me a loveless smile. ‘And he’ll envy your bride. He should have thought of our English beauties before he tied himself up in a barren alliance with France.’
The king cracks a laugh. ‘He should!’ he says triumphantly. He turns to Kitty and to me; his ill temper is all forgotten. ‘He married a Frenchwoman and her babies died!’ he says triumphantly. ‘He should have tried fertile English stock.’
Kitty manages a smile, but she can barely stand as the rage passes over us.
‘Dance!’ the king says suddenly. ‘You should be practising your dances. And we will have to put on a masque. What would be a good one? What would show the Scots that we are as far above them as the angels above men?’
Kitty waves to the musicians to play a circle dance and escapes to the dance floor.
My uncle rolls his eyes towards me; he has no idea what to suggest for a masque. ‘Spring?’ he suggests stupidly, remembering the last masque we did.
At once, the king’s smile dies. ‘What’s spring got to do with it?’ he demands.
The music strikes up. Kitty glances across at me anxiously and starts the dance, but the whole court can see the king is falling into ill temper, again.
‘Aurelian?’ I snatch at an old, half-forgotten lesson. ‘Aurelian, the Emperor – conqueror of the German barbarians?’
The king scowls, racking his drink-fuddled brain. ‘I’ve never …’
‘Your Majesty will remember from your extensive reading – Emperor Aurelian saved Rome from the barbarians. Famously saved them! And – Your Majesty will remember – he built the Aurelian Walls to keep the barbarians from Rome. How is that as a slight to the Scots?’
‘Just like Hadrian’s Wall!’ the king crows, finally getting the point. ‘That says everything! Of course. That’s my choice. Tell the master of revels that I command a masque based on the building of the Aurelian Walls. He won’t know anything about it, but he can ask Jane. Don’t trouble me. I’m busy enough with ordering repairs to these buildings to house them all.’
‘Would Your Majesty play the part of Aurelian?’ I ask, sweet as honey. ‘In a toga – a long toga – and crowned with laurel.’ He will look more like Nero than Aurelian, but he still loves to dress up and disguise, and a long robe will hide his rotting leg. ‘You could be carried in on a throne at the end in triumph, when the masque wall has been built by the dancers and the choristers. The queen could be Peace?’
‘Yes,’ he says, pleased. ‘That’s very good, Jane.’ He turns to my uncle. ‘What a scholar your niece is, Howard! You’d never have thought of Aurelian – I doubt you’ve even heard of him!’
‘Indeed,’ my uncle says, the falsest of smiles glozing his face. ‘She is such a treasure.’
THE KING, THE whole court, and the city of York throw themselves into frantic preparation for the visit of the Scots king; but first, the city must be cleared of the private armies of the border lords who have fought the Scots for generations and are more likely to dig in for a siege than prepare a peaceful welcome. Orders stream from the court that buildings shall be prepared, that great tents and pavilions shall come from London, that furniture, carpets, tapestries must come north, labouring up the muddy Great North Road, and must not be delayed.
Everyone knows there is to be a great event at York; but no one knows what it is. Of course, given that Jane Seymour was to be crowned at York after the birth of her child, everyone assumes that all this fuss is for Kitty. Everyone thinks that she is secretly with child and the coronation is to be her reward.
‘What am I to do?’ she asks me, blank-faced. ‘I don’t want to deny it!’ She flushes with annoyance. ‘And I should be crowned! Why can’t the king just say he’s crowning me? So everyone stops talking?’
‘I’m hoping he will do it during the visit of the King of Scots.’
‘Then why not say that the King of Scots is coming?’
‘He doesn’t want the embarrassment of waiting for a less important man.’
‘He’s embarrassing me!’
We both know that Kitty’s embarrassment does not matter to King Henry, who – however much he pets her – will always put himself first.
‘I have to tell Thomas that it’s not true,’ Kitty frets. ‘I must tell him I am not with child. What would he think of me?’
‘You can’t: he’s still in his bed with fever.’
‘Then I’ll have to write,’ she says, as if it is a mighty undertaking.
‘You can’t write anything like that.’
‘But I have to tell him.’ She turns to me, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Jane, you don’t know what it’s like, day after day not seeing him, and only hearing that he is getting better but never seeing him. I can’t live like this. I can’t be fitted with dresses and practise dances and listen to the king going on and on about the King of Scots if I never see Thomas.’
‘Be calm.’ I try to soothe her. ‘Be calm, Kitty. This is just ordinary courtier work: dancing and rehearsing and being seen by the people. You can do this, even without Thomas, and, anyway, you have no choice.’
‘But let me write to him!’
I am afraid that she is going to start crying, and we have to rehearse the masque in just a few minutes.
‘Jane, I swear to you, I won’t dance, I’ll say I am ill, and I’ll go to bed and not get up again, unless I can write to him.’
‘Yes, yes, you can write,’ I surrender. ‘Shall you dictate, and I write it for you?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘I want to write to him myself, in my own hand. I don’t care if it’s dangerous. I want him to know what he is to me.’
I won’t let her start until she has practised her part and is released from the rehearsal. Then she sends for a quill and a ream of paper. She asks me to comb the paper to give her invisible lines to follow, she asks me to mend the pen and get her a pot of the best ink from her secretary. Then she insists on writing the letter herself.
Her education has been completely neglected. This is a great effort for her to write even in English. She works as hard as any spy transcribing into code, she asks me how to spell ‘recommend’. Despite the guide-lines drawn across the page, her words waver hopelessly, and there is a blot from a tear. It is a letter that a schoolgirl would write – aspiring to formality but shot through with a childish longing. It is a letter that should never be written by a queen – not even if she were writing to a king, a beloved husband. It is too revealing; it is suffused with her love. I cannot bring myself to tell her she may not write this; it is far too late to tell her not to feel like this. This is the passion of a young untutored woman who has lived all her life in a heartless family, commanded by her husband, and now she has someone who cherishes her for the very first time. I could as easily repress this, spoil it, censor it, as I could slap a trusting child.
Master Culpeper,
I never longed so much … to see you and to speak with you … it makes my heart die to think … that I cannot be always in your company. Yet my trust is always in you that you will be as you have promised me … praying you that you will come when my Lady Rochford is here … and thus I take my leave of you, trusting to see you shortly again, and I would you was with me now that you might see what pain I take in writing to you.
Yours as long as life endures,
Katheryn
KITTY CANNOT SLEEP or eat while Thomas Culpeper fights his fever. A dozen times a day, she asks me how he is, and will I send to ask? I order the queen’s usher, Henry Webb, to leave his post and go into Master Culpeper’s service so that he can come and go between the queen’s household and the king’s side. All the other servants think he has been unfairly dismissed, and Lucy Luffkynn swears darkly that the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk will send another favourite into the queen’s service and that new servants will come up with the baggage train from London and replace everyone.
There are long days while Kitty goes hunting beside the king and walking with him in the garden, sits beside him through interminable dinners, and dances after dinner, going hand to hand with his handsome young companions, but never sees Thomas. The king is preoccupied with his building works, every day he goes out into the city, changing his mind on the rebuilding of the abbey, shouting for the master builder, demanding a tower be restored which is to be called Henry’s Tower and will be a lookout over the great walls of York for a thousand years, posting a man on it to warn of the arrival of the Scots king.
Kitty bears the boasting and the outbursts of complaining very patiently; but tells me that she has a pain in her belly that comes on at dinnertime, when she sits down to eat beside the king. Sometimes, she cannot swallow when he puts a great haunch of meat on her plate; she pretends she is eating for hour after hour of dining, as he calls for another dish and another to be brought to the table.
